


Love and War.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Series: Contrelamontre!Goldeneye!AU [2]
Category: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: contrelamontre, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-06
Updated: 2003-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-08 09:05:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alec cleans James up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and War.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the contrelamontre forty-five minute 'if you tell anyone, i'll kill you' challenge. Follow-up to All's Fair.

James was cold. No, that wasn't it. James was _freezing_.

He was still naked but Alec had draped a drab green blanket across his shoulder and wrapped him inside while he walked him to Alec's private bathroom. No clothes until he was clean, Alec had said. And, besides, clothes wouldn't help get him warm. He'd need food and rest before he would begin to feel normal again.

And James knew Alec wouldn't allow that, not until Alec could be certain of James' allegiances. Not until Alec could be certain that James hadn't been sent to be a double agent. And certainties were slow to come in their business. James would be left like this, kept between life and a slow death until Alec's doubts were appeased. Then, and only then, could the molding begin. He knew it would come, then only question was when and how long would Alec make him wait before completion would come.

Alec's words floated towards him through misty air and James forced himself to pay attention. Scalding water was cascading all around him and all he could do was shiver. Alec was talking about old friends, old jobs, the soothing words of someone who knew you way back when and loves you in spite of it.

"Old Thomas, James, remember him? Benjamin Thomas, from SPECTRE."

"Wasn't his real name," James replied slowly, leaning against the hands soaping his back. Alec had scented bar soap and expensive shampoo. James wondered when he'd have enough trust in Alec - or Alec would have enough trust in him - to be able to ask why he had it, and get an answer. James doubted that Alec had to clean off secret agents very often, though it was possible.

Anything was possible. Alec's return had taught him that.

"Of course it wasn't." Alec's hands spread the suds in circular motions, pressing firmly into James' shoulder blades. "But that was what they'd have put on his headstone...had we allowed him to have one."

James smiled and let his head fall forward to rest on the wet tiles that made up Alec's bathroom walls. He had already turned his back on Alec and lived. Allowing himself to be lulled into complacency wasn't too big of a risk anymore. And he knew what Alec wanted and would do to get it. James might not enjoy the process, but they would both be satisfied with the end result. James was an assassin. It was what he had been chosen and trained to do. Who he worked for didn't matter as long as he was convinced that the target represented a threat. James didn't kill casually - only psychopaths did that – but when he did kill, he was thorough. No one wanted to leave an enemy breathing.

"But you've always liked Moscow, haven't you, James? We'll visit there, I promise you that. I'll take you around to all the delightful little restaurants that are set up so each wall has a door and no one sits with their back to it or to each other. Where the waiters' uniforms include Kevlar. Where none of the food need be eaten with knives. All those delightful little paranoid places." Alec's hands moved lower down along James' spine. "You speak good Russian, you'll get along just fine. I can introduce you as my new paramour and show you off to men who've lived in fear of 007 ever since you tagged Zukovsky. They didn't like that, James, didn't like that at all. Not all of them blamed Valentin for being stupid.

"And some of them remember the stories of the tests taken to get into the SIS. Weren't those fun, James? To have to admit that you saw every stranger as a potential enemy and not as a potential friend, to have to admit that you've never truly trusted anybody, to have to admit to yourself that you were _different_. That there was something in you that other men lacked. Not all men are killers, James. Not all men can do what we do. How many men can put a gun to a man's head and feel nothing as he pulls the trigger? How many men can carve up a chest and then walk away? We're ruthless men, James, and it wasn't bred into us, it wasn't something we learned, it's something that's _intrinsical_ to our nature. Without it, without our coldness, our apathy, our cruelty, we're not the same. We're nothing. And so we can swallow the platitudes, the danger pay, the threats. What was that one? Ah, yes. 'If you tell anyone, I'll kill you.' Always a favorite. Not as perfectly melodramatic as it could be, but all men are flawed. It's what makes us equal.

" But what they never realized, dear 007, is that the desire to kill someone has nothing to do with that they did. You understand this as well as I do. I have no desire to kill you. That doesn't mean I won't. Do you want to kill me?"

James shook his head, unable to articulate anything as Alec's hands massaged his ass, thumbs slipping around James' hole. Alec knew exactly what he was doing, of course, but James found that he couldn't fault him for it. They all did what they needed to for survival. Survival came first. Everything else was secondary. So if Alec's survival depended on having James dependant on him, then James couldn't fault him. He might not like it, but his dislikes were immaterial. England had been his master for too long, and she had taught him that this was nothing more than a job. You went in, you murdered, and then you came back to your cold apartment and drank yourself to death. Alec was offering a warm apartment, companionship in bed, and only a slight shift in the identity of the targets. Men like them weren't supposed to have morals. It fucked around with their brutality. Alec knew this and knew how to corrupt it to what he wanted it to be. James wasn't allowed to be any more loyal than was necessary. He wasn't to form close bonds with another assassin because SIS feared the two of them going into business for themselves. James was to live alone, drink alone, and, inevitably, die alone.

And who wanted that?

"Yet I've done things to you that would certainly merit death. We all do things that we don't want to do, James, and then we do our best not to regret them. Sometimes," Alec's thumb slid inside James and James turned his head so that his cheek lay against the condensed moisture on the tiles, "sometimes we don't always succeed. Should I not have left you at Arkangel, James? Should I have taken you with me, your will be damned? I thought those over for nine years, nine years during which I didn't know if you were alive or dead. It was little consolation that you thought I was dead. You didn't have to worry about me, but I worried for you, James, every day of those nine years. Can you blame me for that?" Alec's second thumb slid inside and he began to pull James open as best he could.

James mumbled a negative as the enema began, cleaning him out for Alec's later use. Of course Alec didn't want him as he was. He was dirty now, cold and dirty and matted in his own filth. Alec wanted a prize for his wall, a catamite for his arm, someone to do exactly what Alec said when he said it. James was to be that man, that prize. But they both knew he would need a lot of work before then. And James found he couldn't blame him.

After all, all's fair in love and war.


End file.
